Page 33 of Freed
“You heard me. Date. Time. Location. Guest list. Security. Florist, priest, caterer—I want every last detail dragged into the light and laid at my feet. I want to know what song will be playing when she walks down the aisle. I want to know what color dress she’ll be wearing when she stands beside him and lets him put his ring on her finger.”
Because that is not going to happen.
Not while I’m still breathing.
My jaw locks so hard it aches. Across from me, my men stay perfectly still, waiting for the rest.
And there is more. So much more. Because this isn’t just some engagement announcement. It’s a message. Russo is planting his flag. Telling the world Elizabeth belongs to him now. Telling every family with eyes and ears that he took what was mine and plans to make it permanent.
A muscle jumps in my cheek. He thinks a ring and a ceremony and two weeks of planning will be enough to keep me out.
He doesn’t know me at all.
“Sir,” one of my men says carefully, “if Russo announced it publicly, the security will be heavy.”
I turn to him slowly. “Then they’ll have witnesses.”
He goes pale and wisely says nothing else.
I walk to the window and stare out over Naples, the city glowing beyond the glass, all heat and gold and old stone. Somewhere south of here, Elizabeth is celebrating her engagement to another man.
I try to picture it.
Her smiling.
Her hand lifted so people can admire the ring.
Her mouth saying yes.
Something vicious twists through my chest.
Did he pressure her? Corner her? Feed her whatever lies he had to in order to make her agree? Or did she accept him willingly? Did she look at him and decide I was the monster she needed saving from?
My hand curls into a fist.
No.
I refuse to believe she chose this.
Elizabeth is mine. She was mine before Russo ever touched her world, and she’ll still be mine when I rip his apart.
I turn back to the room. “I want eyes on every property he owns between Naples and Bari. I want the names of everyone involved in planning this wedding. Anyone who’s spoken to her. Anyone who’s seen her. Anyone who can tell me whether she’s being watched, guarded, or kept on a leash.”
“Yes, Boss.”
“And get me photos.”
“Photos, sir?”
“Of her.” My voice goes colder. “Recent ones.”
Because I need to see her face. I need to know if she looks frightened. If she looks trapped. If there’s any sign at all that she wants out.
And if she doesn’t…
I shut that thought down before it can finish forming.
One of the men clears his throat. “What’s the plan?”
